Stories from the Trail

Greetings from Hot Springs, North Carolina, where I am taking my first day off in three and a half weeks.  I've spent days in town before, but I've never taken a FULL day off (in thru-hiker language, this is referred to as a zero).  I was thinking the other day about what sort of mood I'd be in if I were to be working for three and a half weeks with no time off, and the conclusion that I came to was that there is no comparison.  I've been having trouble keeping track of the days of the week, because every single day feels like a Saturday in early July, with the prospect of a beautiful, lazy day ahead (except that "lazy" here refers to hiking 14 - 20 miles per day).

Anyhow.

I wanted to write today about stories.  One of the last times I called home  my mom said, "I love your blog, honey, but where are the hiking stories?"  I gave a relatively trite answer: what hiking stories?  I get up, I eat oatmeal, I hike, I eat lunch, I hike, I eat dinner, and I sleep.  The only stories I've had to tell have been one liners that fit within 140 characters, except that I don't have reliable cell phone coverage, and can't twitter them as they're happening (lucky you).  Examples include the following gems: There were deer grazing near my hammock; I was concerned about ticks.  Or: Someone put a hot dog in my hand and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  Also: My standards have sunk so low that I no longer mind putting on dirty clothing after I take a shower.  And: My feet hurt so much I am contemplating having them surgically removed.  But stories?  Real stories?  Those have been surprisingly hard to come by.  I haven't seen any bears, I haven't gotten giardia, the scenery continues to be beautiful, and (confidential to Ivy, who asked) I've been doing a good job of planning my bathroom breaks around shelters with privies (except for Max Patch, which required me to walk downhill, through the pricker bushes, and into a forest tilted at 45 degrees and littered with toilet paper and freshly scratched up dirt.  Not too terribly pleasant.).

Anyhow, again.

So on Sunday morning I woke up before 5 am for a sunrise assault on Clingman's Dome (I know, I know... Bree?  Waking up voluntarily before 5 am?  Inconceivable!  Well, friends, it wasn't Bree waking up at that early hour, it was Ladypants.).  I could see the stars shining when I peeked out of my hammock, and decided to try my luck for sunrise on the highest point of the AT (confidential to everyone in New England: I was just as surprised as you are to learn that it's not Mount Washington).  I packed up in record time (usually it takes me between 1 and 1.5 hours to go through my morning routine), and had started hiking by 5:30, my stomach full of Snickers bars.  A group of younger guys passed me within the first 30 seconds, and within about 5 minutes their headlamps had disappeared into the darkness, leaving me on the trail, in the dark, completely on my own.

The trail, illuminated by flash (NOT headlamp).

I've been thinking a lot about fear the past few weeks, and about how everyone has a very different take on what frightens them.  Some folks are deathly afraid of snakes or spiders, some of heights, and some of being alone.  The very first time I found myself afraid on the trail was in Franklin, NC, when I stopped by a hiker party.  It was a relatively small affair at a local motel, with the beautiful sounds of bluegrass floating down from the second story balcony.  I was among friends, I was sipping on a good beer, and I was having a nice time talking to folks.  And then the drunk, creepy guy showed up.  He was a former thru-hiker and a veteran of a war a while back, and my goodness, was he loaded.  I did my best to edge away from him, and wound up hearing later that there was an altercation with the cops and a dog and a knife.  From what I understand, nobody (dog included) was harmed, but man, creepy folks with a bit too many drinks down the hatch scare the shit out of me.  The next day I bailed on friends (who were staying an additional day), and resumed hiking.  I solo camped that night, out of sight of everyone, by myself.  And it wasn't until I was in my hammock, snug in my sleeping bag, that I finally regained my sense of safety.

So as you can imagine, hiking through the woods at 5:30 am by myself with a dying headlamp (Public Service Announcement: if you do this, be smart and check your headlamp batteries BEFORE you attempt a night hike) really didn't feel like a big deal to me.  My headlamp only illuminated about 5 feet in front of me, and consequently I couldn't see the white blazes that marked the trees, nor could I clearly see any signs marking intersecting trails (of which there were several).  I wasn't worried about bears, or snakes, or anything, really, because I was so fully occupied with watching my feet.  (Warning: metaphor coming up.)  At night, you see, it's hard to judge how steep the next step is, or how how wet the mud you're about to step into really is.  It's also hard to know which way to go, and so instead of worrying about what nasties might be waiting to jump out at me, I was completely occupied with using my senses and my judgement to determine the correct path (this lead me into drainage ditches a couple of times, but I was easily able to backtrack out of them).  I could smell the spruce trees, and the mud, and could hear the approaching morning, but between the darkness, the poor illumination of my head lamp, and my foggy glasses, my visibility was severely compromised.  Not being able to see the comforting signs of white blazes made me a little bit uncomfortable at first, but then I realized that not only was the morning about learning to trust myself, but that this whole trip is about trusting that I'm on the right path, doing the right thing, at the right time.  Each and every morning that I've woken up out here, whether it's been in town, sharing a room with 4 other people, or in a shelter in the Smoky mountains, each morning I've woken up I've thought to myself: "This is exactly what I want to be doing.  This is exactly where I want to be." 

It's been absolutely amazing.  And I'm only three and a half weeks in.

By the way, since this was supposed to be somewhat of a story, I should let you know: by the time I reached the summit, the clouds had rolled on in, and sunrise, alas, was not to be seen.  Still, the camaraderie at the top, the sharing of coffee, and stories, and breakfast, and the amazing views (after waiting about an hour and a half for the sky to partially clear), made all of it worthwhile (although they did not produce particularly good photographs).

The summit of Clingman's Dome has a viewing structure on top,

which allows you to get above the trees.  Yes, trees.  Even at 6,684 feet,

there are trees on top.  It's a bit different than Mount Washington.

Another view of the viewing platform.

 LADYPANTS ON THE DOME!

And then the creepy guy arrived.  Rather than make this post annoyingly long, I'm going to write about him and his kind in my next post, which I'm auto-setting to update in the next few days.